


Respite

by valancy_joy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancy_joy/pseuds/valancy_joy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're on the run, but <i>It's good. Good that he can smile into Eames' skin as Eames mutters curses, not really awake enough to form words.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: This was supposed to be much more about the touching, and well, hands down pants. But Arthur seemed to have a lot of angst and just wanted most of all to cuddle, and so ... angsty cuddling ... I hope you won't mind... :)

Arthur rolls onto his side, fingers snaking out from under the covers to find, to touch his gun, just there, by the side of the bed. A quick touch, the rasp on his fingernails across the grip is all he needs. Just needs to know it's there. He tries to will his trembling fingers to steady, takes slow deep breaths and tries to push away the nightmare.

He fucking hates nightmares. Any dream that's not part of the work. They feel so messy, they catch him unawares and leave him lying in the dark, gritting his teeth, breathing through his nose and trying to forget the terror.

But he can still feel the ground rumbling beneath his feet, hear the singing shriek of the iron tracks as the train barrels down bright and loud mixing with screams and bright red blood and the crunch of...

Jesus fuck.

He rolls on his back, scrubs his hands through his hair, damp with sweat, presses his palms over his eyes, not minding that it's just a little painful. Tries to concentrate on the real, the tangible.

Beside him Eames is a solid warm presence, reassuring, though he's still sound asleep, face down arms hugging his pillow.

Arthur sighs and burrows more deeply under the covers. Feels the soft flannel beneath his hands, the tiny soft pinprick of goose feathers along his shoulders. He can smell mold and damp and steamy soapy scents from their showers. The wind outside is rattling the window panes behind the blinds. There's no heat in this place. But he's warm enough where he is as long as he stays under the covers. And that's fine. For now at least.

When he snaps awake again, courtesy of a blaring car horn there's a little light seeping in around the edges of the windows. He's on his side again, as if even in his sleep he can't help guarding the door, alert for any sign of danger. He thinks about getting up. About getting on their way. But he's still exhausted, and his eyes are drooping even as he tries to stay awake, to think, to plan. And it's just so nice lying in the early morning quiet, enjoying a rare moment of peace. He and Eames are safe (for the moment), and warm, and still, lying with their feet tangled up together. He doesn't want to move, except that he finds himself absently running the sole of one foot over the feet tangled with his. His socked foot tracing along the ankle of the man with permanently chilly feet. Eames is always warm everywhere except his feet. He slides back a little, pushing closer into that warmth. There's a warm palm on his stomach, Eames' broad hand has rucked up his t-shirt, one arm wrapped around Arthur keeping him close. Warm damp breaths skitter across his neck and shoulder blade. Even Eames' knees are warm, tucked up behind his own knees, the soft cotton of Eames' sweatpants tickling the hair on his legs just a little.

So when Eames runs the arch of one cold foot up his calf, he can't help but yelp, "Fuck!!"

"You're the point man," Eames mumbles sleepily into his back.

When the hell had Eames woken up? And why hadn't he noticed.

So it's pleasant to roll Eames onto his back and run his hand across Eames' bare chest. He scratches the lightest scratches with his fingernails and as ever, the need to touch, to reassure himself of where things are, that things are within his grasp, is a steady comfort. Eames not only lets him, but those big warm hands of his, slide around to the small of his back, pulling Arthur even closer.

When his hand is vibrating with the friction of skin on skin, when he's got a small measure of want built up, somehow captured, like bees buzzing around a tree on a warm summer's day, he wriggles around to get ever closer, shoving his knee between Eames' and loving how Eames paws clumsily at him when he buries his cold nose into Eames' neck. It's good. Good that he can smile into Eames' skin as Eames mutters curses, not really awake enough to form words.

So Arthur can relax, and sink into the solidness that is Eames and just rest. He finds himself tracing random patterns onto Eames' skin, eyes closed and everything slow and easy, his mind wandering along with his fingers, pressing random kisses to the sleeping man's collarbone, his throat, touching wherever he wants, however he wants in this secret pocket of dim loveliness.

 

They'd been so exhausted the night before. Twenty-seven hours awake and neither of them had had the energy to do much besides struggle inside the flat and drop their bags by the door. Arthur had moved towards the kettle in the kitchen with a raspy, "Do you want ...?"

Eames had just shaken his head. "Loo. I'm gonna..." he trailed off, grabbing a couple things from his bag and disappearing into the the tiny ensuite. Arthur'd clicked on the kettle anyway when he'd heard the shower start. Sat there on a rickety stool, tipped back against the wall, just listening, glad finally to be still, no longer on a train, on a ferry, in a car, just still, able to listen to the kettle boil, and the water splashing in the next room.

He made himself a cup of tea. He thinks he might have nodded off for a bit while it was steeping. He'd just closed his eyes for a minute, and then suddenly there was Eames, with a warm hand on his shoulder. He'd covered Eames hand with his own, fingers pressing between Eames', a soft caress, before pushing the tea across the battered counter and slipping off for his turn in the shower. He'd looked back and smiled when Eames, leaning back against the counter, shirtless and wearing only a pair of dark knit sleep pants, drinking Arthur's tea, had winked at him.

He'd hardly had time to do much more than rinse the soap out of his hair before the water started running cold. A quick rinse then, and shivering he'd dug a worn striped henley and a pair of socks out of his bag and pulled them on along with the boxer briefs he'd grabbed earlier.

Eames had already crawled under the covers and after snapping out the lights Arthur padded across the bedsit collecting his weapon, his phone, and his watch, debating setting the alarm.

"Darling, your fretting, it's very distracting. Now come to bed," came a sleepy voice in the half-dark.

"Do you think one of us should..."

"I think both of us should get some sleep," Eames had replied, pulling back the covers.

Arthur had sighed, and slipped into bed, curled on his side so he was facing the door. Eames shifted up behind him, tracing along the collar of his t-shirt, making him gasp as he brushed his thumb across that spot near the nape of his neck that always made Arthur shiver.

"Sleep," Eames had said, soft and warm as he settled in burying his nose into the damp hair on the back of Arthur's head and pulling the covers up over them. And they had.

 

They're at least a day ahead of those fuckers in Oslo with their questionable command of any language and twitchy trigger fingers, after all.

Things had gone to hell, and this is just some nameless bolt hole, a mattress on the floor, a battered electric kettle and one mug, a fireplace with a rusty electric fire that's surely more fire hazard than heat source, and Scotland is fucking cold in April. But because Arthur plans ahead, there are sheets, and a down comforter and pillows that don't belong in this place which looks not unlike a crime scene. They're soft, and clean, and ... comfortable. Everything seems to be ... comfortable at the moment.

Then there's a soft snicker in the half dark.

"April in Edinburgh, love, that's just so unpoetic."

"We're not in Edinburgh."

"Thank Christ for small mercies."

"We're just outside of it."

And Arthur finds himself giggling as he's rolled and pinned beneath Eames who's looking down at him, eyes sparkling. His hips are bracketed by Eames' knees and they're still mostly underneath the covers.

"Get off me," he protests, not very forcefully, pushing at Eames' chest. And if he finds himself running his hands across strong lean pectorals, well, then that's just because he is the point man, one with excellent ideas after all.

And when Eames all but purrs, "I'd rather get you off ..." and works his fingers into the waistband of Arthur's navy boxer briefs, well that's another excellent idea.

 

It's warm and soft and safe ... and they are happy as hands wander across flushed skin, and soft breathless sighs are all the sweeter for the comfort given and received as the sun rises and another day begins.


End file.
